


The Elsweyr Lute

by Ashura



Series: The Bard and the Blade [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Interesting NPCs Mod, Live Another Life Mod, Wandering Skyrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashura/pseuds/Ashura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angharad's dream of joining the Bards' College hits a snag. A Poetic-Edda-shaped snag. Not to mention bandits break her lute, a man is executed, and a woman wants a fist-fight. But the Khajiit caravans are more than they seem, and may have the answers she doesn't know to look for. (Comes after 'Cabbages and Kings'. Lacks both cabbages and kings, but does have music, mead and bloodshed.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Elsweyr Lute

“Keep walkin', softgut! I'm more woman than you can handle!” The clatter of a tankard dropping to the floor accompanied Uthgerd's slurred challenge. She was drunk again. Correction – she'd been drinking with Eldawyn again, so drunk was a vast understatement. It was probably only the Divines' grace that she was still alive. 

Hulda sighed, and rolled her eyes. “Mikael -” 

The bard shook his head. “Don't look at me. She punched me in the face last time. Gave me a fierce black eye. I can't have that happening again—imagine the hearts of all the ladies in Whiterun breaking at once, at the marring of this face.”

Hulda wasn't buying what he was selling. “Oh, for Mara's blessed-” she began, ready to get worked up into a good rant. Hulda was good-natured as they came, but when she lost her patience, it was truly a sight to behold. Angharad sighed.

“I'll take care of it. Hold onto this.” She thrust her lute into Mikael's hands. No sense letting it get broken. When Nords had too much to drink, something usually got broken. 

Uthgerd stood half-leaning against the table where she'd spent the last several hours drinking, swaying precariously. Angharad wished people wouldn't carry bloody big greatswords into the inn; it really wasn't necessary and they tended to knock things over. 

“I can beat anybody in this city! Bare-handed!” The Nord woman's eyes were red-ringed and glassy, her cheeks flushed with too much wine and too much anger. Angharad made the appropriate soothing noises, the way Saadia did when she was telling people to go home. Saadia had a lot more practice at it. 

“Of course you can. But there's nobody here to fight at the moment.” Most of the usual patrons had gone home for the night. Brenuin was slumped over a table asleep. Even Sinmir was trying to make himself more or less invisible in a corner. 

Uthgerd's eyes narrowed. “You don't believe me!”

“I do,” Angharad assured her, but it was clear her protests were going unheeded as the warrior-woman lurched toward her.

“I could take you too! Hun'red septims says I knock you flat.” It wasn't a bet Angharad would generally take. Uthgerd was several inches taller, a good two stone heavier, and wearing steel plate. If one were running actual odds, it'd be at least three to one. 

“See? Jus' fists. No weapons, no magic, no crying!” Uthgerd continued. She was swaying dangerously now, her arms waving to keep herself upright. 

Angharad sighed, put both hands out, and pushed her over. Uthgerd went down in a clatter and clang of armour, looking up dazedly at a ceiling that must have been spinning. 

“...Guess you win,” she grumbled. 

***

“If you're going to be wandering around Skyrim, you'll need armour.” Adrianne was matter-of-fact. “Whether you get it from me, or from someone else. Looking like you don't own anything would get you by in the old days, but the bandits don't have to be so careful anymore.” 

“And we've all heard you had trouble on the road coming here,” Ulfberth added, gruff but kind. He was as pragmatic as his wife, and didn't try to pretend all of Whiterun didn't share news. “I'm sure we can find you something.” 

Angharad sighed, fingering her purse. After Bertie and the cabbages were sold, and her aunt and uncle's share of the coin sent back with a courier to the farm, she had just enough to hire a carriage to Solitude, and hole up in an inn for few days if she didn't get into the College right away. She got bed and board from Hulda for playing and helping out with chores, but she'd had to get new clothes and some of the basic necessities of life. And she couldn't depend on finding the same situation in another inn, especially in Solitude where bards were plentiful. “Maybe just a gamebeson? Something to turn away the worst? I can't afford much.” 

Adrianne was looking her over thoughtfully, sizing her up. She'd given Angharad a bit of instruction in smithing earlier in the day, and finally given her the dagger she'd helped make. “Actually, I think I know just the thing. Wait here.” She disappeared into the back, and even Ulfberth looked puzzled. He asked to see the dagger, and she handed it to him.

He flipped it once, twice, nodded approvingly, and gave it back. “Not a bad start.” 

Adrianne returned with something shiny folded in her arms. “Someone sold this here,” she explained. “It was quite a while ago, I'd almost forgotten it. She was Bosmer—a little slip of a thing. Hunter, I reckon. It needs a bit of repair, but it's too small for most people, so I never got around to doing it. If it fits and you want to try your hand, I'll sell it to you for the cost of the leather and steel to mend it. I can show you enough to get started.” 

As she spoke, she unfolded a tunic of finely-wrought chain, lined in green leather. Ranger's armour. Elf-crafted. And worth much more than a steel ingot and some leather, but Angharad could see why Adrianne was willing to take so much less than it was worth. There wasn't a Nord in Skyrim who would fit into it, unless she sold it to a child. But for a Breton, and a slight one at that, it might do fine. 

“Let me try it,” she said, holding up her arms so Adrianne could drop the heavy chain hauberk over her head. “If I can wear it, I'll take it.” 

***

The sun hung high and bright over the peaks of the mountains, balanced in a sky so crystalline blue it scarcely seemed like it belonged in Skyrim at all. Uthgerd's armoured figure cast a misshapen shadow on the cobbled road, the afternoon light making the hilt of her greatsword look like a second, knobbled head. Angharad's lute made hers look like a hunchback, squat and waddling, and with the axe hanging from her hip it just looked a bit rude. The road was as clear as the sky, empty for the past seven miles. Even then they had only come across a farmer leading a painted cow. 

She whistled the first few bars of _Mogo's Mead_ , and Uthgerd glanced over at her, a wry twist to her lips. “You seem better.”

Angharad shrugged. “The end is in sight, now. Well, all right, not literally. But I was only cross because I didn't want to walk all the way to Solitude.”

“I wouldn't have suggested it,” Uthgerd said dryly. “But we'll only be half a day later than if we'd taken the carriage—a day at most. And it didn't cost fifty septims.”

It had been Uthgerd's idea to offer to sign on as guards for a trader's wagon headed north from Whiterun. The driver had taken a look at Angharad and all but snorted, but when he got a good look at Uthgerd, with her armour and her greatsword, he'd stopped to consider. 

“I take it you can use that?” He jerked his head toward her. 

She just eyed him. “It's not for decoration.” 

He nodded, turned back to Angharad. “And I guess you can play that?” It was her lute he was interested in, not her axe, which was probably for the best. When she nodded, he agreed, and so they'd got as far as Dragon Bridge for the price of a few songs. The man was courteous enough when they parted ways, and paid them fairly, and now Angharad was nearly to Solitude with a purse heavier than when she'd set out. It seemed like a good day for whistling. 

But Uthgerd's expression suddenly changed, and she hushed Angharad with an outflung hand. “Quiet.” 

She was reaching for her sword, easing it almost silently from its scabbard. Angharad, rather than be offended, stopped making noise and put her hand on her axe, ready to summon Wolf. She mouthed, _What is it?_

Uthgerd squinted up the road. “Bandits,” she whispered after a moment. “I'm almost sure of it. Using the cover of the trees ahead.” Her eyes went hard. “If you get in over your head, call that pet of yours and run like hell back to town.” 

Anghard nodded. She wanted to say she wouldn't be afraid, or in over her head. She had no way in the world to know if that was true. She loosed the axe from her belt, just in case. 

They didn't have long to wait. An arrow struck the ground between them when they'd taken no more than a dozen steps. “That'll be close enough!” rung out a young woman's voice, almost merry. “I'll need a big fat purse of gold to let you through today.” 

Uthgerd turned a hard stare toward the tree branches the arrow had come from. “Come down, and I'll give you steel instead.” 

“If that's the way you want it.” The voice sounded disappointed. “I'd rather just take the money, but it's more fun for the boys this way.” There was a short, sharp whistle, and a trio of large men in fur armour leapt from the bushes. Another arrow whistled past Angharad's head. “Last chance. Sure we can't do this the easy way?” 

The bandit had her answer. Uthgerd moved faster than she should have been able to move in that armour, her greatsword swinging in a swift, deadly arc. It met one of the bandit's blades with a riotous clang like a great bell, and suddenly it was all battle, and chaos. Angharad summoned Wolf with a speed born of reflex, and he bore down onto one of the bandits, howling. She heard one curse when his teeth sunk in – “fucking wizards!” – but had no time to see him fall. Something was swinging at her head, and she barely ducked out of the way fast enough, and her lute made a sickening crunch. She struck out with her axe as she jumped; it connected against something hard, and bounced off. 

An arrow struck her, near the shoulder and above the heart, but the elf-made armour served her well. It dangled there for a moment and then fell, its head blunted. A shadow fell across her, and Angharad swung again. Wolf streaked across her line of vision, and the shadow was gone. 

On the road to Whiterun, attacked by giants, she'd been terrified. And probably still would be, if these were giants, but they were only men, and instead of afraid she felt energised. Electric, like the crackle of lightning just before it hits the ground and sends shock-waves through everything. Expectant, like waiting for the thunder that follows it. One of the bandits charged toward her. He was covered in animal furs, with a leather helmet that hid most of his face. She could see his skooma-addled eyes and the downward curl of his lip. He swung a warhammer that took both hands to hold, and she knew no armour would save her from _that_. 

He saw that she knew it. “Pray to Stendarr while you can,” he growled. She didn't have time for praying; she'd need all she had to duck. Then Wolf was there again, leaping skyward to sink his teeth into the bandit's bicep. The warhammer wavered. Not even a Skooma addict was strong enough to swing a hammer like that with a giant glowing wolf worrying his arm. Angharad took the chance while she had it, and sunk her axe into his chest. He let out his last breath in a startled grunt and slumped over, the hammer clattering to the ground at his side. 

Uthgerd was wiping her sword off on the grass. The bandits were dead—even the archer girl, whose legs definitely showed teethmarks. Wolf sat back on his haunches and howled in triumph. Uthgerd shivered, and shot a look at him. 

“I don't know about them, but that would put me off,” she said. She straightened, looking Angharad over appraisingly. “You all right?” 

Angharad looked down at her own body, in case there was something she missed. “I think so. Probably be sore later.”

Uthgerd chuckled. “Probably is right. That your first blood?” 

Angharad stammered, confused—“I'm bleeding?” 

Uthgerd shook her head with a little exasperated sound. “Not you. Him. First time you've killed someone?” 

Abruptly it was all very real. The bandit's glazed eyes stared unseeing up at her, and blood covered the front of his armour, but his hands still twitched. A queasy, unpleasant feeling roiled in Angharad's stomach. The lightning in her faded. “Yes.”

“You did well,” Uthgerd said honestly, sheathing her sword. “To tell you the truth, I figured you'd run. Not to question your honour or anything, just that I know you hadn't seen battle before. Would've been a sensible thing.” 

“Probably.” The queasy feeling was receding, mostly because Uthgerd was so matter-of-fact about the whole thing. Angharad looked up, almost shyly. “...It was exciting.” 

Uthgerd's lips twitched. “Was it now?” When Angharad nodded, she laughed. “We'll make a Nord of you yet.” It was clearly meant as a compliment. “Come on, let's get all this gear off them. Even with blood on it, we'll be able to get a few septims for it once we're in the city.” 

It was real again, and in the end, Angharad was sick twice. Fighting was one thing and killing another, but stripping blood-caked armour off dead bodies and going through their pockets was something else. She wondered briefly why she hadn't had the same reaction to burning Marius and Astius, but decided it was probably just because she'd been in shock. 

They piled the bodies up on the side of the road. The ground was too frozen for burying or burning, but they piled a few stones around like a cairn. Even bandits should meet the Divines with a little dignity. Uthgerd gave her the bandit girl's hunting bow and they shared out the arrows, then bundled up the weapons and armour and trinkets into their rucksacks.Wolf vanished somewhere in the middle of it all, and Uthgerd and Angharad marched on down the road together.

***

It was easy to dispose of the gear, in the end. A khajiit caravan was set up outside Solitude's walls, and Uthgerd headed right toward it. Angharad hung back—she'd been told, always, to be careful of the khajiit traders,and said so. 

Uthgerd said, “You're not selling cabbages now,” and kept walking. It was a point. The caravans were less likely than an honest blacksmith to ask how they came by the bloody armour they were selling. 

What Uthgerd wasn't good at was haggling. Fortunately, Angharad discovered this in time to step in. 

“Ma'dran is sorry,” the khajiit was saying. “He has no great need of such things. He can sell it on, yes, but not for very much gold. Therefore, he offers five septims.”

“Five septims?” Angharad may not have dealt with khajiit traders before, but she was the daughter of farmers and Wayrest merchants. Bargaining was somewhere in her blood. “That's four good sets of armour, they're easily worth that each. They need a bit of cleaning, but nothing good ash soap won't get out.” She looked him up and down. He wore fine-woven clothes, and gold rings in his pointed ears. “You do have some?” 

Far from taking offense, the trader's eyes lit up. “Of course Ma'dran has such a thing. But ash soap costs coin too.” 

“Not as much as what you can get for fur armour this far north,” Angharad countered. “And that's not even counting the weapons. Two good, sturdy swords. That dagger is orc-make, if I'm not mistaken. And that warhammer is worth sixty at least—and that's just if you melt it down. Five septims for the lot.” She sounded offended. Really, she _was_ offended. “There's no need to be insulting.”

The trader regarded her, slow and appraising, and cocked his head. “Ma'dran apologises,” he said smoothly. “Five septims was for the armour only. As you say, it will take cleaning, mending to make right. The weapons add something.” He paused, considering carefully. “For the armour and weapons all together, Ma'dran offers thirty septims.” 

Angharad's mouth dropped open. “It's worth one-sixty,” she said. It was only a rough guess, but at least she obviously wasn't starting too low. “For the cleaning, and to be rid of it, we could take one-twenty, but thirty is a joke.” She was vaguely aware that Uthgerd was watching her as intently as the khajiit. 

_His_ eyes were alight, and she couldn't help wonder when was the last time he'd had to work to make a deal. The Nords didn't trust the caravans enough to let them in the cities; most of the clientele was likely desperate enough not to put up too much of a fight. But she could see it, despite the perfectly calm demeanor he was putting on. He was _enjoying_ this. 

“Perhaps allow Ma'dran to look more closely,” he conceded. Uthgerd jerked a nod in response, and lay the whole lot out on the blanket in front of the merchant's tent. Ma'dran made a great show of his investigation, fingering the edges of the armour, turning the dagger in the light. 

“If these things were new,” he said casually, “then the esteemed lady would be right. One hundred and sixty septims would be a fair price for such. But they are not new. Not even on their second owner. Khajiit can clean them, polish them, make them shine and their edges sharp, but khajiit can not make them new. Ma'dran offers seventy-five septims. It is fair.” He had been looking only at the orcish dagger on the blanket in front of him; now he turned his gaze up to Angharad. “Unless...perhaps another sort of bargain. You are a bard?” 

Angharad nodded. “Well—not a member of the College, yet. That's why I'm here.” 

Ma'dran inclined his head. “Do you know songs of Elsweyr?” 

Most of what Angharad knew were ballads and Breton dances. Elsweyr was far from Skyrim, and further still from High Rock. “I know _The Kitten of Corinthe_ , and could probably manage a respectable rendition of _The Moons Over Riverhold_. Except I can't.” She gingerly unstrapped the lute from her back, to show him the crack in the wood. “It's broken. We were attacked by bandits on the road.” His face suggested that was obvious. “One of them missed me, and hit it.” 

The khajiit stood gracefully. “May I?” he asked, holding out his hands. She handed over the lute. She had not the skill to fix it herself—a broken string or a loose peg she could manage, but with the body itself damaged, there was a good chance it was beyond repair. Ma'dran apparently came to the same conclusion. He gave it back to her. “Wait here.” 

He turned and vanished into the shadows of the tent. It didn't look so large from the outside that it could swallow a person from sight, but then, the khajiit could walk in shadows. 

“If nothing else,” Uthgerd muttered under her breath, “you got his offer up. Seventy-five's not bad.” She fell silent as the shadows parted and Ma'dran returned, something wrapped in a blanket and nestled in his arms.

“Take a look,” he said, offering the bundle to Angharad. She took it curiously, and folded the blanket away. 

It was a lute, but her old lute was like it only in the way that the bandit's stolen swords were like Skyforge steel. The body was made of a wood stained so dark it was almost purple, perfectly formed and braced. The pegs were firm, the strings supple, loosened to keep them from cracking. A slightly lighter inlay twisted around the edges in a design like ivy vines. 

“Try it,” Ma'dran said. “You know _The Kitten of Corinthe_ , you said?” 

“Yes,” Angharad said, already tightening the strings, plucking them to find the tuning. There was very little chance she could afford this lute, even with seventy-five septims in trade, but she was bloody well going to play it. 

She found the tuning at last, ran a few scales to get used to the instrument, for her fingers to find their place. From other parts of the caravan she noticed khajiit turning toward the tent as she started to play.

 _Kitten of Corinthe_ was a dancing song, lively and bright. The lute was a deeper, richer sound than the tune probably needed, but it was beautiful all the same. The song tripped from the fingers, bubbled across the strings. It was, after all, allegedly inspired by a playful kitten. It laughed and cavorted and rolled around in ridiculous harmonies, and finally, barely slowing, it tumbled to a stop as if that same playful kitten had just collapsed and fallen asleep. 

Angharad looked up. All the khajiit were watching her, and Ma'dran, if she had to judge, looked strangely satisfied. 

“Khajiit will stay in Solitude one day more,” he said. “Then we must take to the road again. Perhaps we find someone who wishes to purchase armour and swords on the way to Windhelm.” 

He met her eyes, and there was an earnestness there that did not fit with the sly, bargaining trader. “That instrument is very important to Ma'dran. It must go to the right person with the right hands to play it. So Ma'dran makes this offer. Seventy-five septims for four sets of armour, two swords, a big hammer, and an Orcish dagger. Or a new offer: sixty septims and an old lute for armour, and weapons, and songs. You come back tomorrow at sunset, before we go to Windhelm, and play for khajiit.” He smiled, and his voice held an echo of a purr. “It will give you time to remember _The Moons Over Riverhold_.” 

A slow smile spread across Angharad's face, more than a match for his. “Sounds like a trade to me.” 

***

Solitude's front gates were shut tight. The guards looked them over, took note of Angharad's lute and Uthgerd's greatsword, and only nodded them in.

“You're just in time for the execution,” one said, his voice echoing strangely behind the closed-front helmet. “We're locking the gates in a minute.” 

“What exe—?” Uthgerd began, but stopped as the great gate slammed shut behind them. The answer quickly became obvious anyway. 

The city was decorated for Harvest's End, with coloured lamps hanging from the eaves of buildings and garlands of fruit and wheat woven into doorways. But the holiday was not what had drawn the people into the square. 

A crowd had gathered near the front gate, where three men stood on a raised platform. One wore a prisoner's rags, a tall sandy-haired Nord with a grim, tired face. The second wore the armour of an Imperial officer, his red and gold cape billowing in the breeze. The last was a Redguard man in executioner's robes, steady and frowning, a great two-handed axe over one shoulder. 

A buzz of anticipation spread through the crowd, punctuated by boos, hissing, and occasionally muffled tears. Uthgerd rested a protective hand on Angharad's shoulder. A man standing nearby, who couldn't seem to bring himself to look at the platform, sent a little girl home. Someone shouted, “Traitor!” 

The Imperial officer looked dispassionately at the prisoner. “Roggvir,” he said in a clear, loud voice. “You helped Ulfric Stormcloak escape this city after he murdered High King Torygg. By opening that gate for Ulfric you betrayed the people of Solitude.”

Uthgerd's fingers tightened against Angharad's shoulder. “So that's the one,” she murmured. 

Everyone in Skyrim knew Ulfric Stormcloak had murdered High King Torryg, though the accounts all differed as to how. Some of the wilder rumours said Ulfric had shouted him to pieces using an ancient magic from the days of Tiber Septim. More reasonable ones suggested he'd just stabbed him through the heart. Either way, the resulting civil war touched every corner of Skyrim. There would be no kingsmoot until it was resolved. 

Roggvir stood straight and defiant, meeting the officer's eyes. “There was no murder.” His voice rang clearly across the square, even cut across the shouts of the crowd. “Ulfric challenged Torryg. He beat the High King in fair combat. This is our ancient custom. It is the way of the Nords.”

The crowd hissed and spit and shouted. _Liar, traitor, scum._ Angharad felt the tension in Uthgerd's hand, and wondered for a moment how she saw the whole thing. They hadn't talked about the civil war. People in Whiterun usually didn't, if only to keep the peace. Jarl Balgruuf remained determinedly neutral. The Companions refused to take sides. Everyone saw what the feud being the Battle-Borns and Grey-Manes had cost. They stopped asking. But in Solitude, the Empire's stronghold in Skyrim, opinions were far less divided. 

A descendant of Reachmen, Angharad was never completely sympathetic to the Nord cause. They wanted the country for themselves, but it was a country they had stolen by the blood of her people. Not that she supported the Forsworn either—it was all such a long time ago, and while her father's people were of the Reach, her mother's were of High Rock. Civilised Bretons did not advocate sacrificing to hagravens and blood rituals to ancient gods. The Empire, stretched thing and weak as it was, remained the only real way forward, and the only defense against the Aldmeri Dominion.

But there was something noble in Roggvir's face, proud and cold. He had done wrong, but he did it believing it to be right. 

“Guard,” the officer said, more quietly now. “Prepare the prisoner.” 

A guard stepped forward, but Roggvir shrugged him off. “I don't need your help.”

For a moment captain and prisoner stared at each other. At last the captain nodded. 

“Very well.” The guard stepped back into place. “Roggvir, bow your head.” 

He stepped back, allowing the dying man the dignity of facing his death on his own terms. Roggvir, his hands bound in front him, turned his gaze over the crowd, gathered to watch him die. He knelt before the block, his head still high, his shoulders straight and proud.

“On this day,” he said clearly, “I go to Sovngarde.” 

The executioner strode forward, his huge axe at the ready. Prisoner and headsman spoke no words to each other, nor did they meet each other's eyes. Roggvir stared defiantly straight ahead; the Redguard was visibly calculating his neck.

He lifted the axe, and let it fall. It hit with a sickening crunch, the sound of bone being crushed. Angharad had seen her share of death – more, to be sure, in the last week, but no one in Skyrim ever escaped it completely – but she had never seen someone executed before. Roggvir's body slumped, his head rolled to the side. She flinched, and Uthgerd squeezed her shoulder. Blood leaked from the headless body, soaking the stone and the platform. A ragged cheer went up from the crowd.

Uthgerd steered her away from the scene, her hand heavy but gentle. “Come on. Let's get set up with a room in the inn, and then find this Bards' College of yours.” Angharad followed mutely. She felt glad, suddenly, that the little girl had been sent away. No child should witness someone's head being cut off, even in the cause of justice. 

“What a day we chose to come.” Uthgerd's voice was tight. “Who holds an execution on Harvest's End?” 

“I suppose to get it over with,” Angharad suggested. “Tales and Tallows would be worse.” She twisted to flash her companion a reassuring smile. “Let's not think about it right now. There's an inn there—the Winking Skeever. We should make sure they have room.” Between the execution and the harvest festival, the city was likely to be more crowded with visitors than usual. 

But the Winking Skeever, while bustling and full of people, still managed to have a homey feel to it. The innkeeper, humming to himself behind the bar, waved them over as they entered. 

“A bad business today,” he said, wiping down a pint mug with a dry rag. “But no bad business crosses my door. I'm Corpulus, and this is my inn. Come in and have a drink. New in town, or just looking for a bit of news?” 

“New in town,” Angharad confirmed. “Applying to the Bards' College, though it looks like we might have arrived on the wrong day. Do you have any room?” 

Corpulus' smile was easy and warm. “For two lovely ladies like yourselves? I'd find room even if we didn't. But there's a lovely one upstairs you're welcome to. Can I get you something to eat, as well? A drink? Or just the latest gossip? The mead will be flowing in the streets once the festival starts, but that doesn't mean you can't start with a bit now.” 

“All of the above, please.” They settled up with Corpulus, who showed them to their room—a clean, wide chamber with a sitting area as well as a bed big enough for three and a wooden bathtub. He promised to draw a bath while they ate, and they settled down to a meal of bread, fish, and a hearty vegetable stew. The inn buzzed comfortably around them, all accompanied by the music of a pretty Breton woman with golden braids and a sweet voice. 

After they'd had a chance to eat, clean themselves up and change, they ventured back onto the street. The Harvest's End festival was in full swing, with a group of bards playing sprightly dances and the town's children chasing a goat through the market square. Merchants offered spiced wine, meat pies, and sweets. The afternoon's grisly execution seemed forgotten, or at least put aside, but for the great dark shadow of the platform and the headsman's block. 

Angharad found herself drawn toward it, though she couldn't say why. She slipped away from Uthgerd, who was trading war stories with an old man near the mead stall. The platform itself and the ground around it were scrubbed clean, which made it even more eerie when she saw the headless body still lying where it had fallen. 

Something glinted in the lamplight from the folds of the dead man's shirt. Morbidly curious, Angharad moved closer and knelt near it. It was a gold chain, and just under the bloodstained cloth was the top of charm. In the shape of a hammer.

A Talos amulet. 

What would happen when the Imperial officers found it? Or worse, the Thalmor? They were in the city too, though none of them made an appearance at the festival. Worship of Talos was illegal after the White-Gold Concordat, but by popular consensus in Skyrim, that meant everyone went ahead and did it anyway, but didn't admit it. Treaties can't take away people's faith. 

It didn't seem right to leave it; even less right than leaving a man's headless body lying abandoned while people danced and sang and drank spiced wine. Angharad picked up the amulet. The blood on it was mostly dried. She slipped it into her pocket, straightened, and walked back to the square. 

The bards had started up a _ronde_ , and the dancers were forming a wide, clumsy circle. It was a Breton dance, and the music was pure Menevia. A rush of homesickness threatened to swallow her, but someone grabbed her hand and pulled her into the ring of dancers. The music swelled and grew, and she lost herself in it. 

***

“They want you to do _what_?” Uthgerd slammed her tankard down on the table a little too hard. 

Angharad's shoulders slumped, her chin resting in her hands. “Find some bit of ancient poetry in an old tomb. It wasn't even an audition. They never heard me play. Just..off on a wild goose chase.” She up-ended a bottle of ale into her mug and sighed. “I'm not an adventurer. I'm a lute player. A farmer. I'd be better off writing them a new bloody Edda.”

Uthgerd straightened the bottle before the cup could overflow. “Were they just trying to get rid of you?” 

“That's the thing,” Angharad grumbled in frustration. “I don't _know_. The headmaster—Viarmo—made it sound like the most normal thing in the world. Like crawling through old draugr-filled tombs is just a normal part of a bard's life, when all I want in the world is to have Inge Six-Fingers teach me lute fingerings.”

The silence stretched, like a tiny pocket surrounding them in the otherwise bustling inn. At last Uthgerd asked, “Are you going to do it?” 

Angharad shrugged miserably. “I don't know.” 

Uthgerd nodded. “If you do, I'll go with you. The Divines know someone has to.” She tipped back her mug and took a long drink.

“Sorry—did you say you were here to apply to the College?” The speaker was a Redguard woman, slim and pretty, with the stance of a startled bird. Her voice was hesitant, almost painfully soft. 

Angharad looked at her, nodded, and nudged an empty chair out with her foot. “Yes, I did. Are you a student?” 

The girl shook her head. “Oh, no. Not yet, that is. I want to audition. I came all the way from Hammerfell for it. But they haven't had time to hear me yet. I practice every day.”

Angharad snorted. “It's apparently your sword-arm instead of your voice you should be working on.” 

The girl looked even more startled, her dark eyes widening. “I suppose—I mean, I'm not very good at fighting.” She sighed, a long, sad sigh. “Sorry. I should have at least introduced myself, interrupting your conversation. I'm Fironet.”

“Angharad.” She wasn't really in the mood to meet new people, especially bardic hopefuls who hadn't just been asked to go chasing after a bit of poetry that might or might not exist from a tomb that was almost definitely full of the walking dead. “And Uthgerd.” 

“Greetings and well met,” Fironet said awkwardly. She was more skittish than the colt Lemkil had tried to break two summers back, the one Erik finally bought off him and sold to an Imperial soldier. She was a milkmaid from Hammerfell, originally, but sailed to Solitude with her ex-fiancé to audition for Lady Ateia. Which she still hadn't done. She was sweet and earnest, and Angharad liked her, really. She just didn't want to talk to her right then. Or to anyone. About anything. 

Anyway, she had an appointment to keep. After sharing a drink with Fironet, she and Uthgerd made their excuses and headed outside. The sun was sinking into the far-off sea, the fires of the caravan bright against the darkening sky. 

Ma'dran greeted her with a polite bow. “You have come,” he said, sounding pleased. “Please, join us by the fire. A drink first, yes? Then music, which we have been too long without.”

“Thank you.” They settled onto the soft cushions placed around the fire, and a khajiit who introduced himself as Ma'jhad handed them each a cup. It was metheglin, sweet mead flavoured with spices. The lute rested against Angharad's knee as she drank. “Why is it so long? Can none of you play?” 

“Alas, no.” Ma'dran folded himself onto a cushion. The firelight made the streaks of dark fur on his face seem like shadows. “You are right to wonder. We had such an instrument, after all. We have fingers. But none of us are bards.” 

He poured some of the metheglin into a glass and raised it in toast. “There was one who travelled with khajiit when we arrived in Skyrim. Aza-riyya, she was called. A great beauty, with fur like the darkest part of night and eyes like the setting sun. The lute you hold was hers.”

“And a voice like honey.” Ma'jhad settled onto a cushion next to the last member of the caravan, a warrior who called herself Ra'zhinda. Ma'dran nodded. 

“It is true. She came with us to seek her fortune, but it was not the fortune she deserved. We travelled almost a year together, and her music brought us warmth in this cold land. When the Nords kept us barred from their cities, still we were happy, for we had a warm fire and the songs of our homeland. When our feet wearied from walking the long roads, the tunes she played would soothe our bodies, and her singing made the journey short."

“But Skyrim is a hard and dangerous land, and even now, we khajiit are not accustomed to such cold. One day as we walked, the very air around us went white with snow. The wind howled around us, and we could not see. At first we kept walking, afraid that if we stopped we would be buried. At last we could force our way blind through the wind no more, and we huddled together to wait until the storm passed.”

There was sorrow in Ma'dran's voice, thick and heavy as syrup, and it was not only the firelight that made his eyes glitter. “When at last it did, we could not see the road. We could not see the sun for all the clouds. We did not know where we were. But neither could we wait forever in the cold, and so we walked. We thought only of shelter, but when we found it, it was not shelter for us. We saw a cave, and we walked toward it. But it was home to the great white bears. Two of them. Aza-riyya was not the fastest of us. Ra'zhinda killed both the bears, but not in time to save her." He stared, lost, into the fire. "We buried her there, in a frozen cave a thousand miles from her homeland, where no one will know her name. And we have been without music since that day, carrying a lute which waits only for its right successor. It must be played, for what sorrow is a lute that makes no music? But we did not wish to see it in just anyone's hands. And we wished to hear its music again, in Aza-riyya's memory.”

For a moment all was silent but the crackling sparks rising from the fire, and the distant soft crash of the waves against the shore.

At last Angharad said, quiet and thick, “I am honoured to have it.”

“I know,” Ma'dran said softly. “That is why I chose you.”

Angharad settled the lute in her arms. “In Aza-riyya's memory,” she murmured, and began to play.

Where _The Kitten of Corinthe_ was a lively, cheerful dance, _The Moons Over Riverhold_ was a mournful, melodic tune. A sailor's song, or rather, a sailor's widow's song, about watching and waiting for a long-missing love. It should have had a flute with it, but since she couldn't play two instruments at once, she sung those parts, a voiced but wordless melody. All three khajiit were perfectly still when she reached the final refrain, so she doubled it, gave it one more chance to be heard before drawing her fingers off the strings and letting the notes fade, echoing, into the night air. 

Ma'jhad said quietly: “Thank you.” 

She played for the khajiit until late in the night, when the fire had died to smouldering coals. The sky was a black blanket of glittering stars, half-drowned by the bulging red globe of Masser hanging over the horizon. Secunda was lower, a sharp silver crescent pointing toward the sea. The metheglin was empty, and Uthgerd was yawning. Angharad's fingertips hurt.

Ma'dran clasped her hand when she said goodbye. “You will be staying in Solitude?” he asked. “The college has accepted you?” 

Angharad shook her head, the pain of it cutting through the haze of a good night's playing. “Not yet. They want me to do something for them first, only I'm not sure I can.”

His head tilted to one side, his eyes narrow and curious. “Where then do you go?” When she shrugged again, he continued, “We leave in the morning for Windhelm. We will go through Dragon Bridge first, and Morthal. If you wish, you would both be welcome to share the road with us, and our fire. And yes, perhaps more music. If you do not wish, still you are welcome, should our paths cross again.”

It is a startling moment, when you realise that all roads are open, that you have no direction and nowhere to be. If Angharad wasn't staying in Solitude, it didn't necessarily follow that she had to return to Rorikstead, or Whiterun. 

She sought Uthgerd's eyes, who gave her a nod in return. She said, “I've never seen the Palace of the Kings.” 

“Nor have I,” Ma'dran said, with only a trace of bitterness. “Perhaps you will describe it to me.”

She blushed, though it was too dark to see, and ducked her head in apology. “What time will you leave?” 

He shrugged. “After the sun is up and the market opens. Almost always someone from the city has forgotten something they wish, so we do not hurry. But by mid-morning we must be on our way, if we wish to camp outside Morthal, and not in the middle of the marsh.” 

Angharad nodded, cradling her lute. “Then we'll see you in the morning.” 

“May the road lead us all to warm sands,” Ma'dran said, and turned back to the fire.


End file.
